


Plenty of Everything

by Brighid



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid/pseuds/Brighid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>True love triumphs campus politics.<br/>This story is a sequel to Imagine My Surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plenty of Everything

**Author's Note:**

> This sequel was requested -- someone wanted to hear Blair's voice. The title and quote at the end are taken from the poem Plenty by Jean Little.

## Plenty of Everything

by Brighid

Author's disclaimer: All things Sentinel belong to Petfly, UPN, Paramount and many others. This is NOT for profit, but for love.

* * *

Plenty of Everything 

There are lots of things in life you just assume will never happen, y'know? They get filed under "dream on" and get stuck in the back of your psyche and you just move on, right? And if you push 'em down hard enough, and keep the box at the back of whatever closet you happen to live in, then hey, everything's gonna be all right. Up until about six hours ago, Jim Ellison naked and asleep and sated was, like, way in the back of my closet. 

Now he's curled up against my side, head tucked against my shoulder, just under my arm, and drooling in his sleep. It's a beautiful thing, really. 

Man, I'm surprised he can stand the stink. We smell ... well, the word cathouse comes to mind, but there were no cats, just us. Just us, one totaled bed downstairs, one rumpled bed upstairs, and enough sweat, spit and spunk gluing us together to last until the fourth of July. I half-expected him to scrub us down with Clorox last night before falling asleep, but instead he just swiped me lazily with the bed sheet, curled around me and crashed. Apparently sex mellows him out. 

If I'd known that, I'd have tried this when he hauled out the colour-coded Tupperware. 

I feel ... happy, even with the wet spot that's slowly taking over my chest hair. Content. Which is pretty damned amazing, considering my academic career has stalled out, all my lifelong dreams seem to have gone pbbbhttt, and I went and fell in love with my male roommate and, _hello_ , thesis subject. Hell, yesterday I was ready to check it all in and pull a Houdini, only the big guy here never learned the whole "detach with love" thing, and I finally learned that's not always an option. Sometimes, detaching means bleeding to death. 

You could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather when he licked my neck last night, when he kissed me. Paradigm shift extraordinaire. Hell, I'm still sort of wrestling with it, but it's a good wrestle, and it's taking me in the right direction. I'm here, aren't I? I'm awake at 6:30 in the a.m., with the person who somehow has managed to become my entire universe, and I feel ... good. Beyond good. Giddy. I close my eyes and just let it all soak in. 

Minutes pass, and he's stirring beside me. I open my eyes to find him watching me. He's like this in the morning, zero to sixty. One second he's out cold, and the next he's wide-awake. Usually his eyes are sharp, laser-edged. This morning they are gentle, just a little tentative. I squeeze him into me, crane my neck to place a kiss on the spot he's been surreptitiously combing-over the last six months or so. "You drool, man," I inform him. "Don't you have some sort of house rule about that?" 

He pulls himself up, twists himself so that he's half straddling me. Anything tentative in his gaze is gone, replaced by an almost feral gleam. "Yeah." He lowers his head, and cleans me with a single, broad swipe of his tongue, managing to catch and tug on my nipple ring as he does it. "Always clean up after yourself, Sandburg. It's the golden rule of house rules." He nuzzles up my collarbone --oh god-- and along my throat, against my ear. "Got anything else that needs taking care of?" he says, and I swear to god it's a purr, rumbling along my nerve endings. 

I grab him by the ears and pull him in, kissing him until our teeth clack. "You have no idea," I manage to gasp at last, pushing hungrily up against him. He laughs and pushes back, and we're both lost, surfacing only long enough to pitch the alarm clock to the floor when it starts to ring. Paradigm shift, plate tectonics, Jim Ellison's tongue in my navel -- any which way, the earth moves. 

* * *

I hate Mondays, which really sucks, since that's, like, one-seventh of my whole life we're talking about. It's just, man, they're like a slap in the face, right? You get all mellow, living your life for two whole days according to your natural schedule, the kind your body wants to keep, and then wham! you're thrust into the pattern straight-jacketed onto us by the industrial model of society. I'm not a morning person to begin with, and then all the pressure of a Monday on top of that ... well, let's just say Mondays don't get algae shakes. They get coffee and if Jim's not looking, doughnuts. 

I've gotten a little more relaxed over the years, mind you. Police work isn't Monday to Friday, and hell, half the time I'm getting pulled out in the middle of the night. Criminals don't really give a damn about you getting a good night's sleep or catching a Sunday afternoon game. 

And this morning was ... well, I'm still smiling, and I just put, like, the third set of sheets on the bed since I did the laundry Sunday morning, so you get the picture. It's Monday, and I'm at home instead of teaching or marking or working on my damned thesis, and I probably should be swilling back coffee and stewing, but I can't bring myself to get too worked up about it. Next Monday most of these horny-endorphins will probably have worn off, and I'll be miserable, but right now, I can't honestly give a shit. Instead, I start cleaning the bathroom, with completely dishonourable motivations, and plan just what I'm going to do when Ellison gets home. I think I've still got one of those herbal bath-fizzers. It'll be fun testing the dials with that one. 

The phone rings halfway through me scrubbing the tub, and it takes about six rings for me to get to it. I am breathless, cranky from tripping on the bath mat and half-hard hoping it's Jim. 

It's the Dean. Half-hard disappears like _that_. The woman should tape herself and market it as boner-be-gone. "Mr. Sandburg?" 

I have to swallow a couple of times to get enough spit to unstick my tongue. "Ah, yeah?" Yeah, that sounds like the educated repartee of an ABD. Way to impress, Sandburg. 

"I've scheduled a meeting to review your situation for 11:30 a.m. today. I trust you can make it?" Her voice is cool, collected. It gives absolutely buptkiss away. I start nodding, realize that the woman can't see me, and manage to find my voice. 

"Uh, yes ma'am. 11:30. I'll be there." I barely even hear her crisp good-bye; I'm lost in the ether on this one. I had thought that this was all over except for the shouting, but apparently somebody wants another kick at my can. Only the sudden realization that it's 10:00 and I'm in boxers and one of Jim's shirts jars me into movement, and I hustle into the shower to wash away the smell of Jim's version of a wake-up call. Along the way, I try to figure out what I'm going to wear. 

What does one wear, after all, to one's own crucifixion? 

* * *

I'm waiting in the Dean's outer office by 11:15. Based on the looks I'm getting, Dean Anders' secretary doesn't seem to approve of my fashion sense. Apparently a Marvin the Martian tie doesn't do it for her. Actually, by the looks of her, not much does. Ugh. Do NOT go there, Sandburg. That is a very bad place. Man. I want to pace so bad it's just about killing me. I'm shifting in the seat like a kid that needs to pee, between nerves and the parting gift Ellison left me with. Why the hell the man thinks it's cute to leave a hickey on my butt is beyond me ... although I admit it was pretty damned fun at the time. 

After, like, forever, the door swings open, and the Dean is standing there, a small woman with iron-grey hair and a pinstriped pantsuit. She's maybe, in her heels, five foot two, but she looms in the doorway like some sort of giantess out of Hercules. Just like her voice, her face is painfully neutral. "You may join us now, Mr. Sandburg." 

I get up, resist the urge to stick my tongue out at the secretary, and follow Anders into her lion's den. I'm so busy reciting my whole "I am calm" mantra that it takes me almost a full minute to realize that there is someone sitting in one of the two chairs at the Dean's desk, and another thirty seconds to realize it's Jim. He's sitting still as an effigy, his whole body just screaming with tension; even from behind I can see the muscles in his jaw working hard, building his dentist a summer home. In that instant the Dean and her office and everything else just sort of melt away. I'm across the room, putting my hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look up at me. 

His eyes are frost blue and miles away; I realize with a start that he is terrified. If you're not careful, it looks a lot like pissed-off, but I've made a habit of studying him; hell, I almost made a career out of it. "What's up, man? What are you doing here?" I ask softly, letting my fingers graze briefly against his jaw before dropping into the other chair. 

Jim swallows hard, looks like he wants to speak, but instead Anders clears her throat, and we both turn to look at her. "Detective Ellison was waiting for me when I arrived this morning," she says. "He was most insistent that I speak with him. He can be very persuasive," she adds drily. "He had some very interesting things to tell me." 

I flip my gaze between them, and the pause goes on so long that it makes my skin start to crawl. "What did you say?" I demand at last, directing the comment at him rather than her. 

"I told her about me. About being a Sentinel," he says softly, his voice raspy. "I came in and explained that your thesis is good, that you were just chucking it to protect me. What publishing it would risk, since our association makes it obvious who your subject was, no matter what anonymity precautions you take." 

I stare at him, and only realize I'm gaping when he reaches out and taps my mouth shut. "I couldn't let you throw away your life, Sandburg," he says softly, almost pleadingly. 

Dean Anders coughs discreetly, and I swing my head back around to look at her. "You can understand that I was at first sceptical. That's when Detective Ellison offered to submit to a series of tests. The results were startling, to say the least." She leans forward across her desk. "I can appreciate why publishing at this stage might be a problem, perhaps even a risk." She fixes me with an almost icy glare. "Something I'm sure you must have figured out months ago, which I must admit frustrates me terribly. I don't approve of games, Mr. Sandburg." 

I clear my throat, shift in my seat, pinned between her gaze and Jim's. "In all fairness, I would have gotten the same reaction six months or even a year ago, Dean Anders. I was just buying time to try and figure out some sort of solution. I've even roughed out an alternative thesis based upon my work with the PD, and done the initial research. I couldn't very well go before my committee without a fully planned alternative." 

The Dean nods at me, and her face relaxes into an almost-smile. "That's almost word for word what Detective Ellison said. I contacted Sydney, and your advisor, and reviewed your proposal. It's well thought out, sound, and fits the parameters of what is acceptable. You have one month to have the introduction and the first chapter in to your committee. If it passes muster, you're teaching fellowship will be reinstated and you will be allowed to complete your degree here at Rainier." Her face turns stern again. "This is your last chance, Mr. Sandburg. No more stalling, no more games, no more reprieves." 

She stands, holds out her hand to Jim. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Detective, and I look forward to the day when Mr. Sandburg can publish his research on you. When I first heard about his topic, I was quite frankly convinced that the Anthropology Department had been indulging in peyote rituals. Now I remember that in the midst of all our dusty old books, there are still wonders to be found." 

She lets his hand slip free, and watches as we leave. We're barely out the door and I'm whirling on him, about to ask a thousand questions, the first among them being "What the hell were you thinking?", but he holds up his hand and shakes his head. "C'mon, Chief. I'll buy us some lunch, and we'll talk then, okay? I want a beer." 

I'm thinking it's gonna take a lot more than a beer for this to fall into place for me, but it's a start. And Jim wants to talk, which is, like, light-years away from where we were just a few weeks ago, so hey, I can deal. 

* * *

By the time we reach the pub, the shock has worn off, and I'm starting to feel pretty wigged out. A part of me is overjoyed that I've got this chance, another part is absolutely overawed that he took the chance, and the third part is so pissed I can hardly see straight. He chews my ass off for making unilateral decisions, and the turns around and does the same damn thing? I don't think so! 

That's the first thing I say to him when we slide into our booth, carrying burger baskets and mugs of beer. "What's with you, man? I all but torpedo my Ph.D. to protect your secret, and then I find you doing everything but sending a story in to the Enquirer!" I finish up, hands flailing, ponytail slipping out, fries flying. 

He reaches across, scoops up the spilled fries and sets them back in my basket. "I couldn't let you lose everything for me, Chief," he says, shrugging slightly, not meeting my eyes. "You've given me so much of yourself the last few years, and I felt that I ... I needed to give you this. As for not talking it over?" he shrugs. "I had no guarantees it'd work. I thought it best to do the preliminary scouting on my own. Academic recon." He grins tiredly at me, and I see the strain of it all, the tension. He's still terrified that he's screwed up. But afraid or not, he's here. We're here. My throat goes tight, and I can barely swallow the beer. 

"Yeah, well, I'm grateful, man," I manage at last, reaching across the table to grab his hand, gasping out loud at just how tightly he holds it, how hard he holds onto me, like he's afraid I'm gonna slip away. "I'm still pissed that you didn't talk to me first, but the thoughts were good, man. We'll just have to keep working on the communication thing. We've got years to do it; eventually we'll get it right." 

Something inside him unlocks; his grip eases but doesn't slip free right away. He holds my hand a moment longer, his face cracking wide in this absolutely beatific smile, and I think, yeah, this is good. This is better than good. This is everything. I am a rich man, even if moths are doing mating dances in my wallet. Jim Ellison loves me. 

* * *

Days sort of slip into a blur; I split my days between the station and the library, boning up on my thesis, getting the guys in the department to sign off on all the paper work, doing detailed interviews. Simon just about spits his cigar across the room when I come to do him, threatens to bludgeon my with his file-o-fax if I use the term "thin blue line", but he's grinning ear to ear as he says it. I guess he's just happy that Jim and I are back to normal -- whatever that might be for us. I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to know, he just likes to reap the rewards. Jim's arrest record has gone up again. 

Suddenly, it's three and a half weeks gone, and I'm sitting in front of my keyboard, doing the final once-over on my introduction and first chapter. It looks good -- my advisor and Sydney both approved the drafts I showed them a couple of days ago, and I've only had to filter in one or two suggestions. I pause, saving, and look around me. I can hear something soft and kinda jazzy -- Holly Cole, by the sounds of it -- from the bedroom, where Jim is motoring through the latest Clancy and waiting for me to haul my butt to bed. I'm still working at the kitchen table, even though my room got renovated into a den almost two weeks ago. It's easier to talk back and forth with Jim, since I don't have his Sentinel senses. I glance up to find him peering over the railing at me. 

"You got quiet," he says by way of explanation. 

"I think I've run out of steam for tonight," I admit even as I yawn and stretch. 

He winces as all my vertebrae pop. Probably sounds like gunfire to him. "Jesus, Chief. Get your ass out of that chair and up into bed. I'll give your back a going over, keep you from sounding like a bowl of Rice Krispies." He disappears out of sight, and I hear the hiss as his bedside table drawer slide open, then the rasp of matches and candles as he sets things up the way I like them. 

A line from a poem in high school comes back to me, totally out of context but so, so right. "I've got plenty of everything, but want." I close my files and power my laptop down, then head up the stairs to bed, where Jim Ellison and a back rub are waiting for me. What more is there to want? 

An End. 


End file.
